


Lady Luck

by Lovedmoviesb



Series: Love in the Time of Richonne: A Collection of Historical AUs [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 14:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19443112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovedmoviesb/pseuds/Lovedmoviesb
Summary: Michonne and Rick cross paths during the golden age of Vegas, in the city's only integrated casino. Instantly smitten, Rick sets out to woo the beautiful showgirl, but will Michonne put her reservations aside? Part 1 in a series of Historical AU collaborations between msdoomandgloom and love.devil.movies.baby





	1. Under the Vegas Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Love knows no boundaries, not even those of time and space. Rick and Michonne find one another across history. The circumstances of their meetings may change, but one thing remains: these two are inevitably drawn to one another. A collections of historical AU collaborations between msdoomandgloom and myself.

The dressing room at the Moulin Rouge resembled a three-ring circus. Performers were in the throes of show preparation, winding and diving between one another in a mad scramble for sequins, feathers, high heels, and rhinestones. The air was scented with perfume, pressed powder, and cigarettes, a haze hanging over the room. The fluorescent lights flickered over the vanity mirrors. Michonne peered into the glass, adjusting her crimson lipstick. 

“2 minutes, ladies!” The stage director bellowed through the open door. 

The dancers buzzed like bees, rushing to pull on their headdresses. Michonne adjusted her own feathered cap, slipping her feet into her pair of stilettos. The spiked heels pressed into the tile as she joined the line. 

“Remember, chins up, tits out!” The stage director shouted instructions. “And smile ladies!”

One by one, the women pasted on bright grins. Michonne fixed her own expression into place, sweeping out the door with the others. The bright lights blinded her but she kept in step, swinging her layered skirt to the music. They kicked up their heeled feet, and the crowd went crazy. 

The cheers drowned out even the music, but Michonne knew every beat of the routine by heart. She spun, smiling, swishing her costume with gusto. Her garter slid up her thigh. She flashed it as though it were some kind of brazen secret at the men watching down below, perfectly synchronized with the rest of the chorus line. 

She longed to see the audience, the way she had every night for three months. Las Vegas was every dancer’s dream, the hub of nightlight in America. The hotels glittered like jewels along Fremont Street, tempting in visitors by the thousands. There was no pleasure Vegas did not offer, no experience off-limits for the right price. Casinos, shows, buffets, and nightclubs were all ripe for the taking. 

Of every hotel in this booming little town, only one was integrated. Michonne had heard about the plans for the Moulin Rouge months before it opened. It was listed in Jet, a whole spread about what the casino was set to become. She’d boarded the bus heading west and never looked back. The first day it had opened, Michonne had been at the door to audition. 

Now, she stepped to the music, the roar of the crowd pumping in her blood. She could make out the figures at the tables as the lights gradually lowered, silhouetted by neon. Her eyes scanned the crowd as the main act took center stage. She’d seen celebrities at these tables, Sammy Davis Jr., Louis Armstrong, but tonight, the audience shocked her. Amongst the brown faces she’d grown accustomed to were men with decidedly paler features. This was not exactly new in and of itself, but these men were not average viewers-- if appearances were to be believed.

Michonne was not the only one who noticed. The dancers sashayed in orderly rows off the stage as the lounge singers took their places. The women began to buzz immediately, shimmying out of their first costumes and into even scantier attire. 

“I hear they work for Sinatra,” one of the girls gushed. She applied rhinestone pasties with studious precision. 

“Uh-uh,” another shook her head, her feathers fanning back and forth as she fitted the skirt over her hips, “I heard they work for Lansky. He works for the mob, you know.”

The buzz increased at this simple statement. Michonne was not sure of its credibility, but one thing was clear.

“They must be important,” Michonne wiggled out of her first dress and into her jeweled bikini bottoms. “They’re seated front and center.” The stones warmed quickly against her heated skin, covering only what was strictly necessary for public decency’s sake. 

“Maybe they’ll tip well,” another girl looked enthused at the mere prospect. 

Whoever the men were, they proved to be attentive audience members. There were only two of them, one dark haired, the other more fair. They watched with rapt attention as the show unfolded. Michonne had seen lust in the eyes of men, love even. The dark haired man was looking at her with obvious appreciation, but it was the blue eyes of his associate that sent a bolt through her. This man looked at her with something akin to awe. 

She looked down at him, smiling the way she had for hundreds of spectators before. Her hips swung in a seductive rhythm as she kept pace with the rest of the dancers. Blue eyes followed her motions, tracking the sway of her waist, the bounce of her breasts. Michonne felt herself becoming distracted under his unwavering attentions, warm in a way she was unused to. She nearly missed a step. 

She forced herself to not look down for the duration of the set, focusing on her movements instead. Her muscles burned, her feet ached, her head throbbed under the weight of her headdress, but she felt exhilarated nonetheless. She was sweating and breathless by the time they retired, exiting the stage to thunderous applause. 

“Michonne,” the stage director stopped her from changing out of her costume. “They want to meet you,”

“Me?” Michonne asked, startled. The singers often were the sought after ones. As far as she knew, no one had ever requested a dancer by name. 

“They asked for the girl with the hair,” he shrugged. “That’s you.” He gestured to the thick coils of her locs, curled and pinned to match the rest of the dancers. 

She resented the description, but sought answers. “Who are they?” She questioned. 

“Big wig talent agents,” the stage director looked her up and down. “I’d leave that costume on if I were you. Maybe lose the top.”

Michonne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she pulled a nearly sheer robe over her costume and strode out on her stilettos, projecting a confidence she wasn’t sure she felt. The pair in question were still seated at their table. They were dressed to the nines, outfitted in tailored suits, their hair brushed and parted the way the wealthy white men were prone to styling it. Both were handsome, Michonne noticed. Dark eyes had a dangerous sort of appeal. She knew instinctively that he was the kind of man that thrived in Vegas. She would bet that he’d be at the high roller tables within the hour, cigar hanging from his mouth, a woman under one arm, and a drink in the other hand. The other though, his expression betrayed far less. His eyes were still on her, dark blue in the smoky light of the casino. His partner noticed her presence at last, turning in his seat to look at her. 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she put on her brightest smile, simpering in her sweetest tones. “How can I help you tonight?” 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” The darker haired of the two addressed her. He wore a smirk familiar to her, making no secret of his attraction when his brown eyes roved over her. 

“Michonne Marron,” she answered, her smile not cracking. This man was becoming less handsome by the moment. Still, she knew that her fellow dancers were crowded just out of sight offstage, watching the exchange. More than a few of them would not be so adverse to his attentions. Opportunity was opportunity, and she wasn’t about to squander it because one man had no couth. 

“Michonne,” the man rolled her name around his mouth, his deep southern accent tripping over the syllables. “I like that.” He glanced at his partner. “It’s pretty, ain’t it, Grimes?”

The man beside him cleared his throat. “Beautiful,” he said, his accent just as strong as his cohorts. His gaze remained on her face and not her costume. He took a sip of clear liquid from the tumbler in front of him. 

“We were hoping you’d dance for us,” the other man spoke. “They say you’re one of the best ones here.”

Michonne longed to ask who it was who was talking about her. Instead, she widened her smile. “We have another show at midnight,” she offered. 

“We were thinking something more private,” the man said. 

His blue-eyed partner threw him an irritated look. He pulled the linen from his lap, setting it on the white tablecloth in front of him before standing. “Michonne,” he addressed her directly, “Please sit.” He pulled the empty chair at his table out, gesturing to her. 

“Always so polite,” his cohort mumbled without any real malice. He gestured to a waitress. Michonne busied herself by sitting, arranging her robe so that it did not ride up too high on her legs. 

“Can I get you a drink?” the man called Grimes asked her. 

Michonne shook her head. “I don’t drink at work,” she explained, trying to look gracious. 

“Looks like you’ve got something in common,” the other man took a healthy pull of his glass of whisky. He turned to the waitress. “Darling, I’m gonna get another one of these,” he lifted the empty cup. “And these two are going to get water or something.”

Grimes looked towards Michonne, silently prompting her. “Cranberry juice please, Maggie,” she told the young waitress. 

The green eyes girl nodded. “And you, sir?”

“Water’s fine,” he smiled politely at her. 

The waitress scurried off. Michonne sat silently at the table, her curiosity growing by the moment. The pair of them were better off than she’d first suspected. Silver cufflinks, leather shoes, golden watches… they all made her wonder who exactly she was sitting with. Maggie returned with the drinks. Michonne sipped at hers, the tart tang of the cranberry dancing on her taste buds. 

Perhaps the men realized their rudeness because the dark haired man retrieved a cigarette from a case in his jacket pocket before looking towards his partner. “You want to explain why we’re here since you’ve got a problem with how I do it?” he asked sardonically. 

Grimes took another sip of his ice water, looking amused. He looked to Michonne again. “We’re putting together a new kind of show,” he said to her. “The other casinos are looking to follow what the Moulin Rouge is doing here. We’re looking for the very best.”

“You’d like me to audition?” Michonne’s smile grew more genuine. 

“We do,” he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved a cardboard card. “Give us a call tomorrow and we’ll set up a time.” His fingers brushed hers as he handed it over. 

She read it, noting his first name. Richard Grimes apparently worked as a talent promoter for both the Golden Nugget and the Flamingo. Michonne’s heart skipped a beat, rumors of these two hotels tumbling in her mind. “You know gentleman,” she began carefully. “I’m quite happy with my place as a chorus girl here.”

The other man snorted, blowing out a match as he finished lighting the end of his cigarette. “Is that so, sweetheart?” he asked. “Lanky’s hotels too glamorous for you?”

Michonne bit back a rude response, settling instead on widening her smile. “At the Moulin Rouge, when I’m done working, I can sit out here and watch the shows,” she gestured to the stage. “Maybe even have a drink. Tell me, will the Flamingo or the Nugget offer me the same courtesy?”

The blue eyed man looked impressed at her gall but his partner flushed. “The girl’s got sass,” he said around a puff of tobacco. Michonne held his gaze. 

“Walsh,” Richard Grimes sighed. 

“All right,” Walsh held his hands out in surrender. “I’m just saying that even Sammy don’t complain about the Nugget.”

Grimes leveled a look at him that silenced Walsh immediately. He turned his blue eyes back to Michonne. “It’s a unique opportunity we’re offering,” he explained. “I’d appreciate it if you could give me a call.” He tapped the card in her hand. 

“Well, thank you,” she tucked it into her robe pocket. “I’d better go backstage and get ready for the next set.”

Grimes nodded, seemingly satisfied. Walsh spoke up again. “Looking forward to seeing your next outfit,” he told her. 

Michonne offered a simpering laugh before standing. Grimes rose to his feet as she did, holding out a hand for her to shake. She took it, feeling the calloused palm beneath his heavy jewelry. Walsh stood reluctantly as well, offering his hand. The two watched her retreat backstage. 

Michonne tried to put the pair out of her mind as she went about preparing for her next set. They were gone when she took the stage again. She danced her way through the rest of the show, happily retiring at night’s end. She shook off the questions of her coworkers, insisting that she did not know what the two men wanted. Mob entanglements were a thing that the Moulin Rouge could not afford to mix with. With that in mind, Richard Grimes’ business card was tucked safely into her clutch, well out of sight. 

Michonne returned home, dumping the contents of her purse atop her dresser as she removed her makeup and crawled into a hot bath. It remained there for three days and nights, hidden beneath tubes of lipstick, compacts of rouge, and crumpled dollar bills. In fact, she didn’t think about it at all. It wasn’t until she walked into work one evening, dressed in her street clothes, that she remembered their offer. 

“Miss Michonne,” her name startled her as she walked through the front doors of the Moulin Rouge. The casino was occupied as always, but the day crowd was much more tame than the night. She spun on her heel, taking in the man standing near the slot machines. 

“Mr. Grimes,” she greeted coolly. He was still in a suit, though his jacket was gone. The pale blue of his cotton shirt suited him incredibly well. In fact, he was more handsome in the light of day than he’d been in the smoky ballroom. He was considerably more at ease without Walsh, leaning casually against the wall. 

“They say you’re supposed to wait three days to call a girl back,” he remarked, his lips quirked at the corners. “I wasn’t sure what the protocol is for waiting on a call from a beautiful woman.”

Compliments from strangers were nothing new. Her reaction, however, perplexed her. She liked his eyes one her. Michonne paused, hiking her purse higher onto her arm. “Like I said, Mr. Grimes, I appreciate the offer, but I like the Moulin Rouge.”

He shrugged, leaving his post on the wall to walk towards her. “I can’t blame you,” he looked around the casino, clearly impressed. “And you can call me Rick.”

“Well, Rick,” she smiled, “Thank you for the offer, but I must decline.” 

“You don’t know what the job is,” he pointed out. 

“I know the resorts you represent used to be Siegel hotels,” she fired back. 

This time it was he who smiled. “His reputation precedes him,” Rick chuckled. 

“It does,” Michonne confirmed. 

Rick stared at her, his eyes narrowed, clearly deep in thought. Michonne’s pulse began to raise but she held her ground, refusing to be intimidated. 

“All right,” he bit his bottom lip, nodding. “I can see you’re not going to come work for me.” He tucked his hands in his pocket. “Maybe I can convince you of something else.” His eyes flicked over her again, taking her in from her black ballet flats to her hastily styled high ponytail. 

“What’s that?” she asked, throat suddenly tight. 

“Have dinner with me,” he offered, rocking on the balls of his feet. 

“Dinner?” she laughed at the absurdity of it. Whatever she had been expecting, this was not it. 

“Dinner,” he repeated, grinning just the slightest. “Martin, Davis, and Sinatra are performing this weekend at an event. Come with me.”

Michonne gaped, her mind racing to catch up with this new development. “I’ll have to work,” she said, stammering. “If I miss, I’ll lose my spot.”

Rick shrugged again. “I’ll pick you up after then,” he suggested. “Those Rat Pack boys like to party late.”

She considered this, her mind warring with her desire. She’d never seen a Vegas show before, not one that she wasn’t a part of, at least. “Where’s it at?” she questioned cautiously. 

“Private party,” Rick said. “Sinatra’s throwing a shindig.” He announced this with the air of a person discussing the weather. 

“How did you get invited to that?” she asked, impressed despite herself. 

Rick grinned outright this time. “If you’d have called me back, you might already know,” he teased. 

Michonne shook her head, attempting to hide her amusement. “And if you show up with me on your arm…” she began. 

“I’m going to make a hell of a lot of men at that party jealous,” he finished for her. He stepped even closer to her, standing just out of reach. Michonne could smell the sharp scent of his cologne, could see the curls of his hair struggling to free themselves from his slicked back coif. “What do you say, Michonne?” he asked. “Saturday night?”

She considered, weighing the pros and cons. “I’ll be done at midnight,” she said at last. “What should I wear?”

“You seem like the type of gal with fashion sense,” his eyes darted over belted black dress. “I don’t think I need to tell you how to dress.”

Michonne inhaled. “Then I guess I’ll see you Saturday, Rick.” She stepped backwards. 

“See you Saturday, Michonne,” he called after her, watching as she walked away. She chanced a glance at him over her shoulder, flushing when he smiled at her and waved. She quickened her steps, embarrassed. 

“I see ol’ blue eyes came back for you,” one of the girls observed as Michonne entered the dressing room, breathless. “What did he want this time?”

Michonne set her purse down and flipped the switch to her vanity, illuminating her makeup table. 

“I’m not sure,” she said truthfully, sitting down to fuss with her hair, trying to calm her sudden onslaught of nerves. “But I think I have a date on Saturday.”


	2. The Date

“Not that one,” one of the showgirls protested. “Michonne, you’ve gotta be kidding.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Michonne held up the hanger. The little black dress swung from it, attracting the attention of the whole chorus line. 

“The man is taking you on a date to meet Sinatra, and you’re going to wear that?” another dancer was scandalized. 

“I look good in this,” Michonne pointed out. She’d spent the better part of the morning contemplating her outfit before stomping to her closet and seizing the classic little black dress. She fully intended to stick with her choice, chiding herself for overthinking the whole event. The last few days, she’d contemplated Rick’s motivations for asking her out to no avail. She attempted to keep the liason a secret, but he’d called the casino to confirm their date the night before. The action drew the attention of nearly everyone who worked at the Moulin Rouge. It only increased her anxiety. 

“Well obviously,” another woman rolled her eyes. “He probably takes out women who look good all the time. You need to stun him.”

“Who says I want to stun him? Or have him take me out again?” Michonne pointed out, arching an eyebrow. Her protest sounded thin even to her own ears. 

The room collectively scoffed, laughing in disbelief. “The blue eyed one, right?”

“Yeah,” Michonne nodded. Those eyes had haunted her for the better part of the week. The laughter in the dressing room escalated. 

“The handsome one?” another pointed out. “With the good hair?” 

Michonne grudgingly nodded. “Was he really that handsome though?” she questioned the group. The answer was another round of resounding laughter. 

“Yes! And he had manners. Why wouldn’t you want him to take you out again? Look at Sammy Davis and his wife, or Eartha and her husband. Might be more of these white folks are figuring it out.” Sasha, the showgirl who started the whole conversation snatched the dress from her hands. Michonne opened her mouth to protest but her friends were hearing none of it. “Even if you don’t want a second date, have some self respect. You’re representing the Moulin Rouge in front of all those big wig boys. This isn’t the time to be modest.”

This, at least, was a fair point. “All right,” Michonne nodded. She strode on bare feet to her section of the clothing racks, trying not to look overly eager. “Dorothy Dandridge?” she asked, holding up a swanky lace number. 

The women considered this. “No,” one shook her head. “Dorothy isn’t right for a Vegas party. Lola Falana?” she asked, gesturing to a short gold dress from one of their numbers.

“Too showy,” another protested. “She’s gotta have class. You don’t want them thinking we’re all just here to be ogled.”

“A little ogling wouldn’t hurt,” Sasha pointed out. “Might get more of those talent promoters in the club.”

A silence spread over the dressing room, broken only by the music from the radio in the corner. A familiar song began to play, a sultry, raspy voice providing inspiration. 

Prim and proper, the girl who's never been cased  
I'm tired of being pure and not chased...

“Then is has to be Eartha Kitt,” Michonne announced. She thumbed through the clothing rack, searching.

“Yes,” another girl named Connie agreed enthusiastically. “It’s gotta be Eartha.”

“Leopard print?” Michonne brandished the tight number and it’s matching fur trimmed coat.

“No,” Sasha shook her head. “That’s too much. The white one?”

“She’s not getting married,” Connie pointed out. “At least not yet.” she winked. 

Michonne held in a laugh. “It’s just a date,” she reminded them. Still, she continued sorting through her clothing, wondering vaguely what might impress Rick Grimes. 

“The purple one,” Connie snapped her fingers. “You should wear the plum.”

“Oh yeah,” Sasha bounced on the balls of her feet. “You’ll knock ‘em all dead for sure.”

Michonne lifted the dress in question. It had a tight fitting skirt, silk, with a slit that went straight up to her thigh. The top portion was long sleeved, made of a deep, shimmering fabric with a plunging neckline. 

“Hell,” Connie laughed. “In a dress like that, you might leave with Dean Martin instead of your date.”

Michonne shook her head as the women giggled around her. “It will draw attention for sure,” she admitted. She could almost picture the look on Rick’s face when he glimpsed her in it. 

She pulled the dress on carefully. When she attempted to add pantyhose for modesty’s sake, they pressed fishnets on her. Michonne rolled them up her lotioned legs as her friends scrambled for makeup and earrings. She was steered into the chair and instructed to stay still as they wiped away her stage makeup. Sasha studiously applied eyeliner in a thick dark line, sweeping it up for a cat-like effect. They lined her brows, dusted gold onto her eyelids, and swept a light ruby gloss over her lips. Connie fussed with Michonne’s hair, twisting her locs into tight spirals until large curls framed her face. 

“You look like a Hollywood star,” Connie breathed. The dancers all scrambled backwards to allow Michonne to get a look at herself in the vanity. 

“Thank you, girls,” Michonne gasped, studying herself in the mirror. 

“Break a leg,” Sasha handed Michonne her purse. “Make us look good,” she grinned. 

Rick was waiting in front of the lobby, standing beside his powder blue Cadillac parked in valet. He was in a dark navy suit, forgoing a tie in lieu of a bright red pocket square. His hat was in his hands, leaving his curly hair exposed to the elements. His eyes found hers immediately as she exited the front doors. 

He let out a low whistle, straightening up to meet her at the curb. “This probably isn’t news to you, but you look stunning,” he dropped his gaze to her feet then slowly made his way back up. He was flushing just to look at her, his neck going scarlet. 

“You look pretty sharp yourself,” she accepted his hand, stepping down from the curb in her heels. A chill ran through her at his touch, pebbling her skin. 

“Are you cold?” he asked her, helping her to his car. He lifted the jacket hanging off his other arm. 

“I’m fine,” she smiled at him. Her heart was hammering beneath her dress. 

Rick opened the door for her, helping her inside. “You’ve got to be starving after your show,” he walked around to the driver’s side, sliding in beside her. “They’ll be food at the party.” He smiled at her, pausing before he started the car to just look at her. 

Michonne stared back, heat flooding her face. “Are you alright?” she asked, squirming a bit in her seat. 

Rick grinned, shaking his head as though he needed to clear his thoughts. “Yeah,” he turned the car engine over, steering them away from the Moulin Rouge. “Just feeling lucky.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked, adjusting the seat belt over her dress. 

“Yeah,” he glanced at her again. “I might be the luckiest sonuvabitch in all of Vegas tonight.”

Michonne laughed. “I guess you really like the dress,” she said. She fiddled with the neckline plunging between her breasts, trying to ignore the way Rick was clearly struggling not to look at them. 

“I like the woman wearing it,” Rick didn’t miss a beat. 

Michonne was glad that he turned his eyes back to the road as she flushed beneath her makeup. The desert streets were dark as Rick drove them away from the glittering neon on Fremont Street. The radio hummed a Nina Simone song in the background. Michonne leaned into the leather seats, trying to calm her nerves. She felt the way she did before taking the stage the first time. 

Rick steered the car up a long lit driveway. An ivory house was at the end, shimmering like a jewel. Music leaked from the windows and dozens of men and women dressed to the nines were exiting luxury cars, filing into the house. 

“Wow,” Michonne breathed. Rick grinned at her. 

“Don’t be nervous,” he told her, handing his keys to a valet as he came around to help her out of his car.

“How do you know these people?” she asked, taking his hand. 

Rick pulled her to his side, grinning. “You read my card?” he asked. 

She nodded, walking instep with him. “I did.”

“Then you know I’m a talent agent,” he said, guiding her up the stairs. 

“Half of the men in Vegas are talent agents. They don’t know Sinatra though,” Michonne countered.

The doors of the house were opened to them. She nearly gasped again. Some of the Vegas casinos didn’t house glamor like this. Golden light illuminated a room with plush dark carpet, marble columns, and a grand piano pressed into the corner. Someone was already there playing. Michonne realized with a start that it was Sammy Davis Jr. The crowd itself was a mixed bag, looking more like the lobby of the Moulin Rouge than Michonne could have possibly hoped. She relaxed just the slightest. 

Rick looked amused. “Fair enough,” he handed his jacket and hat to a blonde doorman before accepting two flutes of champagne from a tray. He offered her one. “I guess I’m a good one, then.” He held up the glass, toasting her. 

Michonne clinked hers against it, still confused. “How did you--”

“Michonne,” he cut her off kindly. “I’ll answer all your questions,” he promised. “But first, enjoy yourself.” He took her arm again, steering her into the party. “Deal?” he asked. 

Michonne looked around, taking in the faces of the high rollers of Vegas. She moved her eyes to the man next to her. Rick was smiling, looking at her like she was the most impressive person in here. “Alright,” she sipped her champagne, marveling at the taste, “deal.” 

His grin widened. “Let me introduce you to some people,” he took her arm, guiding her through the crowd. They brushed elbows with a few of Rick’s associates. His pride was thinly veiled as he introduced her to a dozen or so partygoers. She drew curious glances, but if anyone had rude comments, they kept them to themselves. Michonne sipped her drink, willing her nerves to calm. Rick, by contrast, was perfectly at ease. He remained by her side, waving and grinning at people in turn. 

“I expected a tougher crowd,” Michonne said cautiously once they were gifted a moment alone. 

Rick took her point immediately. “Not everyone is so bad,” he explained. “And after Siegel got killed, a lot of those guys started straightening out their acts,” he told her.

Michonne threw him a skeptical look. Rick laughed. 

“All right,” he admitted. “But I don’t work for them. These casinos are big money. They’re pretty much corporations now. I just work with talent. Occasionally, that means I get contracted by the casinos. Does that bother you?” He fixed her with his gaze, looking like he might march them straight out of this party if only she said the word. 

Michonne considered this. Most casinos in Vegas were built with funds that were less than clean. “You don’t work for the mob?” she asked outright. 

Rick laughed, shaking his head. “No. I’ve never met any of those guys.”

She accepted this for the time being, smiling against her glass of champagne. Rick did not miss the gesture. He reached for her again, laying his hand on her shoulder as they navigated through the crowd. Pairs of eyes turned towards them in waves, appraising her from head to toe. A few made a show of whispering openly, clearly wondering who she was. 

“People are staring,” Michonne said to her date, her hackles rising. 

“Well,” Rick looked at her. He removed the empty champagne flute from her hand and replaced it with a fresh one. “They’re wondering who you are,” he explained. “And how I landed a date like you.”

She scoffed, laughing. “I’m sure you’ve brought beautiful dates before,’ she said, sipping her drink. The bubbles burst against her tongue, making her feel lightheaded. 

“One or two,” he admitted. “They don’t compare to you.” 

“Flatterer,” she accused without venom. 

“Is it flattery if it’s the truth?” he asked. “You’ve gotta be used to people staring at you.” His question was more curious than lecherous. 

“Onstage,” she said simply. 

“I’m willing to bet they stare off stage too,” Rick polished off his drink. “Does it make you uncomfortable?” he asked her. 

“No,” Michonne shook her head, her curls moving with her. “It makes me feel like I should be dancing though.”

“Really?” a light went on behind Rick’s eyes. He looked around the room. “Do you want to dance?”

Michonne laughed. “No one’s dancing at the party,” she pointed out. People were more concerned with smoking and drinking, guzzling down bottles by the dozen. 

“Not yet,” Rick winked at her. “Come on,” he placed his hand on the small of her back, steering her towards the grand piano. “Let me introduce you to the host.”

“Rick, wait--” she attempted to stop him, her nerves suddenly spiking. It was too late. In seconds, she was standing in front of the Rat Pack, staring into the famous blue eyes of Frank Sinatra. 

“Ricky,” he greeted her date warmly. “Glad you could make it. Sammy here was thinking you wouldn’t show.”

“Ah Sammy,” Rick chuckled. “No confidence?”

Sammy didn’t stop playing the piano as he spoke, grinning up at them. “Can’t blame me. You’re always working. I lost good money to Dean.”

Dean Martin laughed. “100 bucks. I believed in you, Ricky boy.” He patted Rick bracingly on the back. “We didn’t expect you to show up in style like this though.” 

Sinatra nodded, looking towards Michonne. “Where are your manners, Ricky? You aren’t going to introduce us?”

“Sorry,” Rick cleared his throat, gently nudging Michonne forward. “This is Michonne Marron,” Rick smiled. “She’s a dancer at the Moulin Rouge.”

Recognition crossed every face in front of her in an instance. “You finally went down there to see the show then?” Dean Martin nodded. “Took him forever to get out of the office.” He reached for Michonne’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Michonne. I’m Dean.”

“Frank,” Sinatra took her hand in turn. 

Sammy finally paused his song to reach for her. He dropped a kiss on her hand. “Sammy,” he told her. “If you get sick of Ricky over here, come find me.” He winked at Rick’s scowl. 

Michonne laughed. “It’s nice to meet you,” she wished she had something more to say, but was fully starstruck. 

“I was hoping you boys could help me with something,” Rick spoke up. “My beautiful date here wants a dance.”

“Well then,” Sinatra laughed. “You definitely need help.”

“Why don’t you have a seat, Ricky, and I’ll help you out.” Sammy stood up eagerly from the piano. 

Rick laughed, shaking his head. “I was thinking more along the lines of you play her something she can dance to.”

Sammy considered this. “Do I gotta watch you dance too?”

“That’s for sure not going to impress her,” Dean spoke up. “Trust me, miss. You don’t want to see that.”

Rick’s scowl deepened as Michonne giggled. “Haha,” he mocked. “Are you going to keep the lady waiting?”

“Of course not,” Sammy smiled at her. He sat back at the piano with a flourish. “Dean, get the crowd’s attention, will you? Frankie, set that drink down, we’ve got work. And Michonne?”

“Yes?” Michonne smiled at him. 

“Tell your man to sit down before he falls over. You ready to dance?” Sammy’s hands ran over the keys as his partners moved into position. 

She glanced back at Rick who smiled encouragingly at her. “Break a leg,” he told her, coaxing the flute of champagne out of her grip. Dean took her now-empty hand and guided her in front of them. Michonne was vaguely aware of the sounds of him talking, then Frank and Sammy, of the audience laughing, then her name being announced. She focused on smiling, on not shaking. It wasn’t until the piano began to play that she felt at ease. 

The music filled the room, creeping into her, spreading though her faster than the champagne had. Her body began to move on its own accord, her feet responding to the music. It was a song she knew, a popular, seductive tune. When the men began to sing, trading lines and riffing off one another, Michonne slipped into the rhythm, losing herself. 

Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets…and little man, little Lola wants you…

Space cleared as she moved, tossing her head and limbs. Her bare leg swept out, the slit riding hider, but Michonne could barely feel the fabric. She knew the party was watching, but it felt the way it always did on the stage. The crowd was responsive, laughing, cheering, whooping in delight. 

She always gets, what she aims for. And your heart and soul is what she came for…

“That’s you, Ricky boy!” Dean shouted, to the great delight of the crowd. Michonne spun, spotting her date. If he was embarrassed he didn’t show it. His eyes were on her, his champagne glass hanging loosely at his side. She found herself smiling at him, spinning with more fervor. 

She’s irresistible you fool, give in… give in…

The song came to a roaring conclusion and the party burst into applause. Michonne struck a pose, breathless and exhilarated. Sinatra guided her to take a bow with the rest of them and she happily did so, hugging them all in turn. 

“Check her out again at the Moulin Rouge, folks,” Sammy announced, playing her off. 

“Go easy on Ricky, huh?” Frank teased her, pointing at her date. 

Rick took her hand, resuming his place at her side. “No need to go easy on me,” he assured her. “I can handle it.”

She smiled at him, adrenaline still pumping. Dancing had begun in earnest now, spurred on by the trio of singers in full entertainment mode. Michonne accepted the compliments of dozens of attendees as Rick walked her to the bar. 

“How was I?” she asked him as he secured more champagne for her. He presented her with a plate of hor d'oeuvres. Michonne happily selected a few, filling her empty stomach. 

He smiled, incredulous. “You’ve gotta know you’re flawless,” he responded. 

“Maybe I just want to hear you say it,” she teased, taking another bite. She blotted at her face with a cocktail napkin, wondering if her makeup had survived her performance. 

“You’re perfect,” Rick rose to the occasion, turning his body towards her. “Talented,” he slid her drink into her hand. “A goddess,” his hand covered hers on top of the bar. “It’s not everyone who can get onstage with the Rat Pack and be the center of attention.”

She laughed. “I don’t think it was technically a stage,” she pointed out. “But thank you, Rick.” She flipped her hand over beneath his. He didn’t hesitate to lace their fingers together. 

“I didn’t do anything,” he took a drink of his whisky. “That was all you.” He set his glass down, licking his lips. “Where’d you learn to dance like that?” he asked, giving her his full attention. 

Michonne continued eating, shrugging. “I’ve always danced. My mom was a dance instructor. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t dancing.”

“And you wanted to perform that long?” he questioned. 

“I wanted to do ballet,” Michonne answered, The sting of an old hurt rose up within her. “Turns out the world wasn’t ready for that dream.” She smiled wryly. 

“The world’s full of idiots,” Rick said without hesitation. “You’d make a wonderful ballerina.”

She laughed, “you’ve never seen me do ballet.”

Rick stole a bite from her plate. He smirked at her. “One day, maybe,” he said. 

“If you’re lucky?” she asked, teasing. 

“Exactly,” he stole another bite. “And if the world’s lucky, maybe they’ll get to see you too.”

A warmness crept into her chest. Perhaps his statement was naive, but Rick looked as though he actually believed it. 

“Well you’re a talent agent,” she hedged. “Maybe you can help the next generation of aspiring ballerinas along.”

He cocked a brow, looking amused. “Who says I’m not?” he challenged. “Talented though you are, Michonne, I’ve got a few dancers who actually want to work with me.” He took another gulp of whisky. “Crazy world, isn’t it?”

She laughed in earnest, amused and now with many more questions than she’d started off with. “You’re too much,” she chided. 

He shrugged. “You wouldn’t be the first to accuse me of that.” He pulled her hand closer to him, running his thumb along hers. “But you should come by the studio sometime. See what I actually do.”

Michonne smiled at him. “Maybe I will,” she said. 

From the center of the room, Dean Martin began to sing. Michonne watched as the couples around them began to move with more zeal, fueled by alcohol. 

“Rick,” Michonne gripped his hand. “Come dance with me,” she requested. 

He laughed. “They weren’t joking about my dancing abilities,” he warned her. 

Michonne stood up. “I don’t care,” she told him. “I’ll teach you.”

He followed her, leaving his drink behind. “Alright,” he took her hand again. “Lead the way.”

Michonne steered him towards the edge of the dance floor, pulling him towards her. She draped one arm over his shoulder and held his hand in hers. His palm found the curve of her waist. He gripped lightly, stepping close to her. She could smell the scent of his cologne, see the light stubble already grazing his jaw. He really was handsome, she admitted internally. His face had a kind quality to it that she felt captivated by.

“Follow me,” she said, pulling him backwards. Rick’s feet moved with her, somewhat clumsy and unsure. “You’re doing great,” she assured him. 

Rick laughed. “You’re sweet, Michonne, but you’re a bad liar,” he fumbled in his steps. 

Michonne stepped closer to him. “I’m not lying,” she whispered into Rick’s ear. His grip on her tightened until he was holding her flush against him. Michonne enjoyed the press of his body. He was solid beneath his suit, warm. She laid her head against his shoulder, less concerned with dancing than what it felt like to be held by him. 

“Do you want another drink?” he asked, his lips grazing her ear. His heart was pounding beneath her chest, his pulse fluttering against her palm. 

She shook her head. “No,” she released his hand so that she could wind both arms around him.

He held her closer, wrapping his freehand around her waist. His cheek pressed against hers as they fell into a rhythm, stepping slowly to the music as Sinatra started singing a sultry ballad. The smell of Rick’s cologne was making her dizzy, affecting her more than even the champagne had. His fingertips brushed the swell of her ass as they swayed, though whether he was doing it on purpose, she could not discern. 

“I think you were lying about being a bad dancer,” she teased, tilting her head up to whisper in his ear. 

He chuckled, the sound sending reverberations through both of them. “You make it easy,” he admitted, twirling them just to hear her giggle. 

“Why’s that?” she asked, baiting him. 

He grinned slowly, turning his face until his lips brushed her face. “Probably because you’re so damn beautiful,” he imparted, his hands tightening around her waist. “Or because you feel so good in my arms.”

Michonne pressed harder to him, the slick fabric of his suit stroking her bare skin. Throwing caution to the wind, she kissed him just beneath his ear before whispering, “Is that what you were thinking about when you were staring at me onstage that night?”

One hand crept downward slowly, cupping the whole of her ass for just a moment before sliding around to the slit in her dress. He rubbed his thumb against her, the calloused surface sending a shiver through her body that left her gasping. 

“I was thinking about a lot that night,” he admitted, his voice rough. “And for a few of those nights after I left.”

“Just a few?” she mock pouted. 

He looked her up and down, his eyes dilating. “All of them,” he said. “Did you think about me?” 

His eyes had haunted her since that night in the club, but it hadn’t been until he asked her out that Michonne had entertained the idea of a dalliance. “Maybe so,” she evaded. She stepped backwards, coercing him to spin her to the music. He did, but quickly drew her back, wrapping her in his embrace again. 

She could feel the heat of him through the expensive fabric of both of their outfits. Forgetting herself, Michonne rocked against him, seeking him out. Rick hissed sharply through his teeth as she grazed him, his hand gripping possessively at her thigh. 

“Want to see the rest of the house?” Rick asked, swallowing thickly. “Frank’s got a great pool.”

Michonne nodded. The room in here was too crowded, filled with too many eyes. Rick led her through the cluster of people, keeping her positioned in front of him, his arm around her waist. No one noticed as they slipped outside into the cool desert air, too distracted by free flowing booze and frivolity. Outside was quieter, simplistic and well-manicured. The pool was lit but empty, the garden largely unoccupied. He brought them to a corner against the house, staring at her as though he wanted to devour her whole. 

Michonne shivered. Rick didn’t hesitate to remove his jacket, draping it over shoulders. She reached for his suspenders, straightening one absently. He caught her hand, holding it against him. 

“I’m starting to think you might like me a little bit, Michonne,” he teased. 

“What gave it away?” she asked, stepping closer to him. From inside the house, Eartha’s song began again, the lyrics finding their way to the couple now staring intently at each other. 

I want to wake up in the morning  
With that dark brown taste  
I want to see some dissipation in my face...

“Just got a feeling,” he told her, smiling slightly. He wrapped his arm around her waist again, pulling her closer still. Rick turned his head, brushing his lips against the back of her hand. Michonne inhaled sharply. 

“Rick,” she called his name. “Kiss me,” she requested, tilting her face towards his. 

He didn’t hesitate, closing the scant distance between them. His lips were warm, soft. She gasped against them, tasting the remnants of champagne and whisky. He kissed passionately, his tongue wandering, his arms closing in around her, sheltering her from the outside air. She wound her fingers into the edges of his curly hair, tugging lightly. He let out a groan, breaking their connection to lay his forehead against hers. 

“Michonne,” he began, kissing her again for good measure. “Damn--”

His sentence was swallowed in the sudden onslaught of noise as the party spilled outside. Michonne turned in his arms, watching as dozens poured out the sliding glass doors, heading for the pool. A few women stripped down, jumping in the water to the delight of the spectators. She watched, one part amused, one part irritated. 

“Grimes!” someone shouted, gesturing at the pair of them. “Bring that beau of yours and jump in!”

Rick shook his head, grinning even as he refused. Michonne watched the party dissolve into shenanigans, an idea forming in her mind. 

“Do you want to get out of here, Rick?” she asked her date. “Go somewhere quiet?”

His eyebrows jumped, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he kissed her hand again. “I know a place.”

They made their escape, sliding into his car and hitting the road once more, back towards the city.


	3. The Studio

The lights flickered on one at a time, humming in the otherwise quiet studio. Michonne’s heels clicked across the cement floor as she walked into the open space. 

“You work here?” she asked, turning towards Rick. 

He shrugged, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “Sometimes. Mostly I’m in my office,” he pointed upwards to a room with large glass windows facing the stage. 

She spun, taking it all in. Rick’s suit jacket fluttered over her shoulders, the fabric brushing against the silk of her dress. “Is this why you were in the club that night?” she asked him. 

Rick chuckled. “Now you want to talk business?” he asked, amused. “Left me twisting in the wind for three days--”

She laughed, somewhat embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she began. 

Rick stepped towards her, cupping her face in one broad hand. “Michonne, you weren’t rude. I’m just teasing you.” His thumb traced the shape of her jaw, brushing against her bottom lip. She resisted the urge to nip at him, instead taking a shaky breath. Rick released her, gesturing to the set. “And you’re right; this is what I wanted you to audition for.” 

“It’s a show?” she turned the conversation back to business with difficulty, glancing at the large cameras pushed against the wall of the far end of the soundstage. 

“Something they’re going to play across the country in picture shows,” Rick confirmed. “To get folks interested in Vegas.”

“You think I’m enough to get people to come to Vegas?” she laughed lightly. 

Rick stared at her again, “You were enough to get me out of my office,” he admitted. Michonne’s whole body ran warm. He continued, clearing his throat. “And what the Moulin Rouge is doing is important. Maybe the rest of the country will follow suit.”

“You think so?” she asked, smiling at him. 

Rick shrugged. “I’m going to do my damndest to convince them,” he said. “Having a beautiful woman on my side wouldn’t hurt,” he chuckled, glancing at the cameras behind them.

“And I would have had to dance for just you?” Michonne dragged her hand along his arm. “Or would Mr. Walsh be there too?”

Rick let out a barking laugh. “Shane doesn’t have a whole lotta couth, but he’s a damn good director,” he explained. “And I’d say you gave a great audition earlier, if you’re interested in the job.”

Michonne considered this, an idea forming. “Can you play music in here?” she asked him, moving closer to him. 

Rick nodded. His arm wound around her waist again, easing her against him. Michonne succumbed to desire, tilting her face forward to kiss him once more. His lips sent a thrill through her, the heat of him making her feel dizzy, reckless. 

“Can you play some Ella?” she asked against his mouth. 

“Yeah,” he blinked in surprise. “Right now?” he asked. 

Michonne let his jacket slide from her shoulders. She handed it back to him before easing out of her heels and setting her purse on the floor. Her bare feet were cool against the cement below them. She nodded, stretching her arms over her head. Rick reluctantly released her, eyes hooded as he watched her back away towards the stage. Slowly, he walked backwards, heading for a record player. It took him a few moments of searching through a nearby shelf, but he located an album. He slid it onto the platter, balancing the needle atop it. 

The music began, low and sultry. It flowed through the room like whisky poured into a glass, filling the studio with its deep melody. Michonne watched as Rick came forward again, leaning against a prone camera to watch her. 

She began to move, slowly, methodically, swaying to Ella’s smooth voice. This was different than her dancing onstage at the casino, different than her performance just an hour ago. Michonne raised herself onto her toes, dragging her feet in wide, sweeping motions, years of ballet resurfacing. 

You came, you saw, you conquered me…  
When you did that to me, I knew somehow this had to be…

Her skirt swirled around her, lifting and bunching as she turned, arms up. Her movements were controlled, smooth, so unlike the high-spirited gyrations she’d become accustomed to. Still, Rick watched her, eyes dark, mouth parted, like he’d never seen something so captivating in all his life. 

How strange, how sweet, to find you still...  
These things are dear to me, they seem to bring you near to me…

She lifted her leg, continuing her adagio, eyes closed, head tilted back. She leaned forward, pitching her leg higher before coming back down. On and on she twirled, transported. 

Two lovers on the street who walk like dreamers  
Oh, how the ghost of you clings!  
These foolish things remind me of you

Michonne finished as the music faded out, her feet returning to the ground. She blinked her eyes open, surprised to find herself in the darkened studio instead of among the clouds. The song began to change, but she scarcely noticed. Her gaze was on Rick, on the slack-faced quality of his expression, on the look in his eyes.

“Damn,” he exhaled. “I’m definitely the luckiest sonuvabitch in all of Vegas.”

She smiled, flattered. “I like dancing for you,” she said, sliding forward towards him. 

“Good,” he grinned outright. “I like watching you dance. You’re welcome to dance around me anytime.” He left his place at the camera to meet her, pulling her into his arms. She embraced him, dragging her hands down his shoulders and to his chest, feeling the heated skin beneath. Her breath began to hitch, her pulse racing as though she was still in motion. 

“You take me out again, and I’ll dance for you again,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. 

Rick’s hands played down her body, smoothing over the silk until he came to the place where the slit of her dress began. His bare skin touched hers and she swore she was catching fire. 

“I’ll take you out every night,” he promised her, his lips pressed to her temple. “Whenever you want me to. Wherever you want to go.” His heart was beating frantically beneath her palm, his skin coloring as a flush crept down his neck. Michonne suddenly longed to see how far down it went. 

He kissed her, cupping her face in a hand. His mouth was warm, frantic. She parted her own lips for him without pause, gasping and shaking at the feel of him. He sucked and nipped at her in turn, his other hand clenched around her thigh, moving dangerously close. Michonne leaned into his burning touch, her hands scrambling to find a hold on him. She anchored herself on his shoulders, holding him tightly, mewling against him. 

“Michonne, are you drunk?” he asked her, pausing to take a gasping breath. 

She shook her head. “Are you?” she asked. 

“No,” he groaned, pulling her back in for another searing liplock. The heat between them became an inferno. She suddenly wanted to be free of her gown, to feel him against her with no barrier between them. 

She stumbled forward, tripping over her discarded shoes and purse, spilling the contents across the floor. Rick pulled back, chuckling, glancing down at her lipstick and compact. He released her to bend down. Michonne giggled, following him. She picked up the clutch, watching as he handed her belongings one by one. He lifted her compact, freezing when he uncovered the small foil package beneath. 

Michonne’s face began to burn at once, despite her desire. “The girls from the show…” she explained thickly. “They must have--”

Rick only laughed. “Good friends,” he observed. He handed the condom to her. Michonne held it between her thumb and forefinger. “We don’t have to use it tonight,” he assured her. He winked, helping her to her feet. 

Michonne clenched the square in her fist, coming to a decision. “Does your office have furniture?” she asked. 

Rick’s eyes darkened at once, his gaze falling to her enclosed hand. “A desk,” he answered shortly, his voice clipped. 

“That’ll work,” Michonne swallowed. 

Rick took her hand at once, all but running them to the stairs leading up to his office. He fumbled with the keys for a moment before swinging the door open and tugging the chain on his lamp. A low amber light illuminated the furniture in question, a handsome oak desk and leather chair. Against the wall he had shelves of books and records, with filing cabinets lining the other side of the room. Framed photos hung around them. Michonne thought she spied a few famous faces frozen in time beneath the glass but didn’t care to look too closely.

“You sure?” he asked her, his mouth pressed against her neck as he embraced her from behind. His hands tightened in a fist around the hem of her dress, dragging the fabric up and over her legs. He paused at her waist, breathing heavily against her, waiting for her response. 

“Yes,” she gasped. The heat of him sat thickly between them, driving her mad with desire. She could feel every inch of him through the scant fabric covering her backside. She arched backwards, encouraging his fevered exploration of her. 

It was all the answer Rick needed. His hands moved upward, tracing the skin between the spaces in her fishnets, his fingers playing along the edge of the lace beneath. He skirted over her, applying the lightest of touches until she was panting in his arms, slumped against him. 

“Tell me what you want,” he requested, tossing her mussed hair to the side. He held it in one fist, his other hands dancing patterns over her center. 

“I need you to touch me,” she groaned, tilting her head back to receive his kisses. 

“Where?” he asked. 

Michonne wanted to scream, one part of her responding to his game with delight, the other wanting to tackle him where he stood. She reached backwards, rubbing her palm up his leg until she could feel him through the fabric of his suit pants. She took no care to tease him, instead choosing to show him exactly how she needed to be touched. He groaned, his hands tightening around her as he pressed even harder against her. 

“Everywhere,” she demanded. “Touch me everywhere, Rick.”

He began to undress her, taking care to not ruin her gown. “Whatever you want,” he promised, letting the dress fall to her feet. 

Michonne stepped out of the skirt, unabashed in her lacy bottoms, growing more heated under his unwavering stare. He scooped her dress from the ground, tossing it over his desk chair. She took far less reservations with his clothing, tugging his shirt from his waistband and shoving his suspenders from his shoulders. 

Rick assisted her, throwing his clothing to the floor. His hands were on her again, urging her backwards against his deck. He lifted her, setting her on the edge. “I hope you don’t like these too much,” he kissed her, muttering against her mouth. His hands tugged at her stockings. They gave way with a shocking rip, the sound of it thrilling her. 

Michonne pressed her palm to his chest as his hands found her, teasing until she was a panting, writing mess. His fingers slipped beneath the scant lace still covering her. She moaned outright, spreading her knees to allow him a more thorough exploration. 

“Damn, Michonne,” he huffed. His breathing stuttered as she found him again, rubbing at him before shoving his briefs off and down his legs. She took a moment to look at him, the hard lines of his body, his narrow waist, and the evidence of his desire for her. 

She let her hand fall open, pressing the little foil package into his. He tore it open with his teeth, urging her upwards across his desk. She let her back hit the cold wood, inhaling sharply at the sensation. Rick allowed little space between them, following her within seconds. She gripped him, rolling down the protection her fellow dancers had been thoughtful enough to send her out of the door with. Rick moaned, a deep throaty sound that left her gasping. He tugged the scrap of fabric still left on her off with fervor. She spread her legs, accommodating him as he settled between them. 

She cried out loudly in pleasure when he entered her. Her hands gripped at his hair as he eased in, inch by torturous inch. She had a brief moment of clarity, a sudden realization that she was naked on a desk with a man she barely knew. He reached for her, drawing both of their hands above her head and began to move. Her misgivings ceased to matter to her at all. 

The desk rocked beneath them, squeaking as Rick began to wind his hips with precise motions, searching for the spots that drove her wild. His body was hard against hers as he pinned her to his desk, unrelenting in his mission to take her completely apart. She rolled her hips up into his, uninhibited while she cried out her pleasure. He began to whisper in her ear, things that would make her blush at any other time, endearments that left her reeling. 

“So good, baby,” he panted, pressing wet, sucking kisses into her skin. “So tight,” he grunted, moving faster. “Just perfect--” his hands slid beneath her, cupping her ass with greedy palms. She hiked her legs up further, pulling him deeper, opening herself to him as much as she could. 

“Rick,” she called his name, digging her nails into his back. She bit at his shoulder, drawing a moan from him. “Please…” she begged, unsure what she needed, but craving release. 

He sat up, his hands tugging at her waist as he doubled his efforts. The desk shook dangerously, but neither of them took much notice as his hips pistoned forward, sending her soaring. Michonne felt pleasure race through her, white-hot and all-consuming. She babbled senselessly, a mixture of curse words and his name, writhing against the unforgiving surface below her. Rick called her name as he tightened, his hands nearly bruising her hips. He fell forward against her, panting, drenched, and temporarily sated. She wrapped him in her arms, holding him tightly. She could feel the echo of his touch everywhere, humming across her body. 

“Damn,” he chuckled against her. His lips trailed kisses over her slick skin. 

She laughed, tugging at his damp and now-wild curls. “The luckiest sonuvabitch in Vegas,” she teased. She felt pretty lucky herself at the moment, but wasn’t sure she could articulate it. Instead, she busied herself with stroking his hair. 

He nodded enthusiastically. “By far,” he agreed. He rolled over, reversing their positions so that she could lie comfortably against him. “Gonna have to bring you somewhere with a bed next time,” he remarked, wincing as the desk pressed into his back. 

Michonne giggled, laying her head against his chest. “You could do that, tonight, you know,” she suggested. The idea held more appeal than she expected. 

He held her tighter. “I just need a second,” he exhaled. “Gotta get the feeling in my legs back before I drive the car.” He glanced around his office. “Not sure how I’m going to be able to work in here ever again.”

She laughed in earnest, enjoying his rumbling chuckles beneath her. “Guess you’ll have to take more breaks then,” she suggested, pushing her mussed hair out of her face. 

“Maybe so,” he mused, straining up to kiss her. Michonne cradled his face in her hands, lavishing him with reckless abandon, enjoying the play of his lips against hers. His kisses lacked the frenzied energy they’d had earlier, but they were no less passionate. He took his time with her, his hands wandering her slick skin. Within moments, she could feel him beneath her again, pressing hard against her stomach. 

“Too bad they only gave me one,” she lamented, half-teasingly. 

Rick chuckled. “In my pants pocket, I’ve got one,” he admitted. “Shane--” he broke off chuckling. “It was just in case. I didn’t expect this.” He held her tighter. “But I’m damn happy about it,” he said against her mouth, kissing her again. 

Michonne laughed, sitting up. “Your pants pocket?” she asked. 

His eyes darkened. “Yeah,” he responded, voice strained.

With a grin, she pushed herself off of him briefly to retrieve it.

The sun was beginning to rise when they managed to exit the studio, walking hand in hand through the empty parking lot. Their clothing was worse for the wear perhaps, and she was down a pair of tights, but Michonne found she did not much mind. Rick helped her back into his car, kissing her again before he walked to the driver’s side. 

“You off today?” he asked. 

“I am,” she turned her gaze away from the rising desert sun to look at him. The world had a sherbert glow, the cotton candy orange and pink mirroring her emotional state. 

“I don’t suppose you’d want to go out and get some breakfast? I know a really good place. Maybe spend the day at the pool with me?” he asked. “It’s not as nice as Frank’s but--”

Michonne laid her hand atop his on the steering wheel. “I’ll need my swimsuit first,” she smiled. Her dress had seen more than enough action for the night. 

“That we can do,” he started the car, beaming before kissing her hand. The Cadillac came to life with a low rumble, the only sound in this otherwise quiet morning. Michonne left the radio off, happy to enjoy the stillness. Rick steered them down the empty roads. One by one, the neon lights of Vegas were powering down. Michonne watched them, smiling. 

Rick rubbed patterns into her knee with his calloused palm, his hand finding her bare skin beneath the slit in her dress. The gesture was comforting, familiar already. 

“Are you sure you want to spend a whole day together?” She teased, enjoying his gentle touches. “You’re not sick of me yet?” 

He smiled at her, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. “Don’t think I’ll ever be sick of you,” he squeezed, chuckling when she let out a giggle. “Maybe you’ll listen to my business proposition now,” he joked. 

Michonne laughed. “Might be a bit of a conflict of interest, don’t you think?”

He shrugged, “Well, I was hoping to get your whole chorus line in the show. I’m only planning on dating you though, so…” he looked over at her questioningly. 

Michonne leaned over the console between them, kissing his cheek. “That’ll work,” she agreed, settling into her seat again. She wound her fingers into his hair again, tugging and pulling as he drove. 

Rick draped his arm over her shoulder, playing with the edges of her now mussed curls. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I think it will.”


	4. Luckiest Man Alive

This is not how Rick had imagined his night would unfold. 

He’d planned the details down to the most miniscule, searching for the jewels that would best compliment Michonne’s complexion, finessing his way into dinner reservations at an establishment that frequented the Hollywood elite. He’d even reserved a room, or a suite rather, with a view he knew she would love, the desert out beyond, the neon lights of Vegas below. Two tickets to spirit them off to Paris were folded neatly into his wallet, his best suit was pressed, and the little velvet box was burning a hole into his jacket pocket. Everything was in place, ready for the moment of truth. 

And Rick was sitting in a jail cell in a Vegas police department, wondering how the hell it had all escalated so quickly.

His knuckles smarted and were bruising already, and there was a cut beneath his eye going black and blue. Rick’s mind was not on these inconveniences, but on Michonne instead. Her show would be ending soon, and she would be waiting for him in their usual spot. He wondered whether she would worry, how long she might stand in the dark, looking for his blue Cadillac to come around the corner. 

“Mr. Grimes,” an officer peered in at him through the bars. They’d had the good sense to move the other man to the drunk tank, far out of Rick’s line of sight. He was liable to be charged with something much worse than disorderly conduct if he had to listen to another word that spewed out of his mouth. Perhaps his cracked front teeth would remind the stranger that where Michonne was concerned, he ought to keep his fat mouth shut. 

Michonne was used to strangers staring at her, but for Rick, it was an adjustment. She was a beautiful woman, made all the more stunning in her costumes and silks. Admiration he could understand; he might have even been able to tolerate a lecherous leer or two. But he found that eyes were often on the pair of them, some curious, some appraising, some full of a terrible judgment that sent rage boiling through his veins. He’d learned to temper it, to angle himself between those hateful eyes and his love, to turn his back before the situation could get too out of control. He knew it bothered Michonne though she did not show it. She kept her head high, her chin up, but her hand would squeeze at his like he was a lifeline, a silent acknowledgment that this world of theirs had far to go where fair treatment was concerned. 

There were theaters that he no longer frequented, friendships that he’d left fall to the wayside, business partnerships that he dissolved at once -- all based on a flippant comment that some might have called a joke. He rarely disclosed these instances to Michonne, though he suspected she knew despite his discretion. This world might have been new to Rick, but it was the whole of her life, a daily struggle that she’d learned to weather long ago. 

So the eyes followed them, on red carpets, in bars, in picture shows, at the pool, in casinos, hotels, and the like. Rick did his best to ignore it. There were some instances, however, that he could not disregard. 

“Yes?” his voice was terse, but he could not help it, not even to garner softer treatment from the officers here. 

“You know who you want to call?” The officer was short on patience. Rick couldn’t say he entirely blamed him. The drunk tank was swarming already, and it wasn’t even 1 in the morning yet. 

“Yeah,” Rick nodded, sucking at his teeth. “I know who I want to call.”

“Jail?” the phone was rough against Rick’s ear as he listened to his friend’s voice come down the line. “Holy shit, Grimes, did we switch places? Is this some kind of a bad joke?”

“I wish it was,” Rick held in his sigh. Shane Walsh’s surprise was to be expected. 

“What the hell are you in jail for?” his director asked him, half-amused, half-aghast. 

“You saw the Enquirer?” Rick asked in return. 

The humor slipped from Shane’s voice all at once. “Shit...yeah. I was hoping you wouldn’t see it tonight. Did your girl--”

“I don’t know,” the thought haunted Rick enough as it was. “Some pencil-necked idiot was waving it in my face at the bar tonight, asking if it was true.”

“Of course it ain’t,” Shane fired up at once. 

“I told him so,” Rick’s fist flexed involuntarily, sending a shock of pain racing up his arm. 

“What he’d say?” Shane asked, voice rough. 

“A bunch of shit he won’t be saying again,” Rick glanced down the narrow concrete hallway, squinting towards the drunk tank. He couldn’t see the man anymore, but he supposed they might have taken him to see a doctor by now. 

“You knock his face in?” Shane sounded almost proud. 

“Not his whole face,” though it wasn’t from lack of trying. “He’s gonna need a good dentist though.”

“Attaboy,” Shane applauded him. “You need me to come bail you out?”

“I do,” Rick nodded. Shane owned him a couple anyway. “But I need you to go to the club first, pick up Michonne.”

“Does she know?” Shane asked. 

“She will soon,” Rick sighed. 

“Wasn’t tonight your big night?” Shane asked suddenly, as though he’d only just remembered. 

“Was supposed to be,” Rick swallowed, examining his reflection in the chrome box of the payphone. If the tabloid rags thought he was a mobster before, that shiner forming under his eye wasn’t going to help his cause. 

“Shit Rick,” Shane snorted. “You’ve got some damn bad timing.”

“You’ll pick her up?” Rick pressed. 

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “Then we’ll come spring ya.”

He hung up without another word. Rick set the phone back in its cradle. The officer was waiting for him at the end of the hall. Rick traipsed back towards him as casually as he could manage. 

“I saw your new show,” the officer told him conversationally. 

Rick glanced at him. “That so?” he asked. 

The officer nodded. “Me and the wife. It was pretty good. It ain’t the Rat Pack, but that girl of yours, she can dance.”

Rick nodded. “She can.” It was an understatement, but frankly, he was tired of correcting people tonight. 

“Isn’t it weird though?” The officer pressed. “You being you and her being--”

Rick froze, eyes narrowing. The cop wisely stopped mid-sentence. 

“Only thing weird about it as how folks like you treat us,” Rick imparted. He sped up his gait, eager to be back in the cell and away from this man. He’d go to prison for sure if he stayed much longer. 

“I ain’t got nothing against it,” the officer held up a palm in surrender. “I gotta say, I get it. She’s a mighty fine lady. But your children...what are they going to be like?”

Rick had given much consideration to this thought. When it passed his mind, he imagined a daughter with Michonne’s hair and talents, sons with personalities like his and skin like their mother’s. He kept silent on this, resolving to get himself in no more trouble today. 

“I’m just saying,” the officer finished, shutting the cell door again. “It’s something to think about.”

Drunks began pouring in by the dozen, saving Rick from the indignity of any further inquiries from the supposedly well-meaning police officer. The drunk tank filled up, so they started loading them in with Rick. Rick kept to the corners and away from the staggering and vomiting rabble, counting down the seconds before Shane got there. 

It was Michonne he saw first, still in her stage makeup, clutching her coat over her. She rushed forward towards him but was stopped by another officer. Rick stood at once and pressed against the bars, watching her. 

“She’s with me,” Shane swept in, voice loud and barking. He stepped to Michonne’s side, putting himself between her and the cops. “We’re here to pick up that one,” he pointed at Rick. 

“Oh,” the officer was caught off guard. “He’s gonna need bail,” the officer explained. 

“Do I look like I don’t got it?” Shane challenged. 

Michonne’s eyes remained on Rick through the process, clouded with something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He waited anxiously until the cell doors were open. She was in his arms within seconds. Again, the eyes were on them, but Rick couldn’t have cared any less. 

“Are you ok?” he asked her, smoothing her hair between his hands. 

She laughed, bewildered. “Me?” she questioned. Her fingers traced his bruising eye. “Rick, what happened?”

“I’ll explain,” he promised, kissing her forehead. 

“Alright,” the officer announced loudly. “So we got one suit jacket, one watch, a wallet, cufflinks and--” he set the belongings on the counter one by one. “One ring, still in its box.”

Michonne’s eyes widened as she looked at it, the question written all over her face. Rick hastily gathered his things. 

“Are we good?” he asked the officer. 

“Guy says he won’t press charges. Wants to avoid any...entanglements.” The officer paused on that word. Rick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “So we’re good. Don’t go knocking anymore teeth into skulls.”

“Got it,” Rick couldn’t promise he wouldn’t, but he was eager to get out of here. “My car?”

“Impound,” the officer pointed. “You gotta wait until morning for that. No one’s there now.”

They left, Michonne clinging to Rick’s hand, the air heavy between them. The walk from the front door of the precinct to Shane’s black Cadillac seemed to last hours. Michonne was uncharacteristically quiet, her fingers laced tightly around his. Rick slid into the backseat alongside her, wrapping his arm around her waist. She leaned into him, still clinging to his hand. The radio droned on in the background, a mixture of big band hits and recaps of the baseball game. Rick barely heard it. There was a ringing in his ears, a heady mix of emotion that left him exhausted. 

“Well,” Shane pulled up to Rick’s place, throwing his car into park. “Call me if you need a ride in the morning.”

“I’ll get a cab,” Rick told him. He shook his friend’s hand. “I owe you.”

Shane just shrugged. “Gotta figure we’re almost even now.” He looked in the backseat where Michonne was at Rick’s side. “Go easy on him, alright?” he suggested. 

Michonne nodded. Her lips were pursed, that question still swirling behind her dark eyes. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Rick told Shane, helping her out of the car. 

His house was blessedly quiet as they entered. The air conditioner kicked on when he flipped the switch, cooling the stale air. He hadn’t planned on returning here for two weeks at least. He was glad for the solitude now though. Michonne left her heels in the foyer and her purse on the couch before turning to him. 

“Guess I owe you an explanation,” Rick draped his jacket over the counter, suddenly nervous. His suit was wrinkled, his tie askew. He tugged it off, waiting for his girlfriend to speak. 

“You hit someone,” she said calmly. She was still in costume, the sequins of her short and tight little dress catching under the light from the ceiling. He wondered what she had danced tonight, whether the crowd had liked it. 

“I did,” Rick said. His knuckles were swelling already. Michonne looked at them before sweeping off to his kitchen, Rick hot on her heels. She retrieved a frozen steak from the freezer before wrapping it in a dish towel. She pressed it to his hand. The cold was instantly soothing. 

“He was talking about me? About us?” she asked. There was something carefully controlled in her tone that Rick recognized instantly. 

“He won’t be anymore,” Rick promised her. He pushed a stray loc back from her face, needing to see her expression. 

Michonne sighed. Her eyes filled with tears suddenly. Rick closed the distance between them at once, holding her close. 

“Michonne,” he began, seeking to soothe her. 

“They’re always going to say those things, Rick,” she cried into his dress shirt, makeup running. “Always.”

He knew the truth of her words, even if he didn’t have the wherewithal to articulate how sad that it made him. “Good thing I hit hard,” he remarked, rubbing his uninjured hand down her back.

She began to laugh, shaking her head through her tears. “Was it the Enquirer?” she asked. “One of the girls showed me. She says we can probably sue.”

“I called my lawyer already,” he told her. Maybe he wasn’t a mobster, but he did have connections, and he intended to use them. He kissed Michonne’s forehead, allowing his lips to linger. “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered. He wished she knew just how sorry he was. 

She nodded again. “Me too,” she sighed. She pulled back an inch. Rick used the dishtowel to wipe her face. He tossed it in the sink once he’d cleared the makeup and tears away. 

“I had a suite booked tonight,” he said, holding her again. “We could catch a cab, if you wanted to.” Perhaps he could salvage what was left of the night, get them back on the right track. 

She wrapped her arms around his waist, looking up at him, her eyes tinged pink from her tears. “What’s the occasion for that?” she asked, swallowing thickly. 

He had planned to surprise her over champagne and steak, to make love to her afterwards in a California King bed. Still, he found himself dropping to his right knee, fishing the little box from his pocket. The kitchen tile was unforgiving beneath his leg, but he balanced anyway looking up at Michonne. Her breath hitched at once. Her hand, still in his, began to tremble. 

“Michonne,” he began. “It’s been a really good year.” The best of his life, despite the whispers and stares. “I’ve never been so happy.”

“Me neither,” her voice was quiet, high, as though she barely trusted her ability to speak. 

“I was thinking,” he cleared his throat, trying to remember what he’d planned to say and coming up completely blank. “We love each other. And it doesn’t matter if they stare, or what they say. I want to spend my life with you. And if you do too…”

“I do,” she assured him, shaking like a leaf now. 

A smile split his face. “Then we should get married,” he held up the ring. The platinum band caught the kitchen light, the rubies glinting. 

“I think you’re right,” her voice was strained, tears beginning again. 

Rick slipped the ring up her left-hand ring finger. It looked just as beautiful as he’d imagined against her skin. He stood up, kissing her soundly, ignoring the sting of his bruised face as their lips met. “I had a whole plan tonight,” he whispered to her, regretful. 

She crushed her mouth to his, her lips parted, her hands scrambling to grab a hold of his shoulders. She always kissed like this, with reckless abandon, like it might be the last time. Rick held her, hefting her against him, his hands running familiar trails down her body. 

“I don’t want to share you tonight,” she whispered against his mouth. 

Rick understood the sentiment. He picked her up, carrying her to his bedroom. The first time they’d been together, it had been a frantic tumble on his desk in his office. They’d been together hundreds of time since, in a hundred locations. It seemed right tonight that they be in the bed that would soon belong to the pair of them. 

It was hard to undress them both with a bruised hand but Michonne assisted, tossing his clothes around like confetti. He stroked his palms up her bare legs, touching her the way she liked until her head flung backwards into the pillows. He wanted to take his time with her, but the heat of her, her plaintive moans, the way she wrapped her legs around him and squeezed made him sure she wouldn’t mind if they got right to the main act.

They had the rest of their lives to go slow. 

She fit him like a glove to a hand, the tight heat of her making his knees weak as it always did. He really was the luckiest sonofabitch on Earth. Of all the men that could have been at her beck and call, she’d chosen him. 

“God, Michonne,” he braced himself on his forearms, bending to kiss her as they moved together. He licked and sucked at her neck, in the space he knew made her squirm. She held on, urging him forward, one hand sprawled across his back, the other grasping at his waist and ass. 

“Rick,” he liked his name best this way, half-sighed, half-moaned while he was inside of her. He kissed her again, unable and unwilling to break their connection. “Harder, baby,” she begged. “Please…” her words broke off when he complied, leaning up to go deeper. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, leaning forward until she was nearly split in half. 

Michonne had never been shy when it came to sex. Tonight was no different. Her pleasured cries were loud enough to echo, uninhibited. He knew he was making plenty of noise of his own. 

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” his voice was a clipped growl in her ear. She tightened around him as he spoke. “So damn perfect.” There were a million things he loved about Michonne, the sound of her voice, the way she danced, her laugh, her walk, the feel of her skin. He loved the way she never hesitated to chastise him when he was being stubborn, that she would sit up with him watching tape of dancers for hours on end. He loved that she would show up at the studio, dinner in hand, to help him edit, loved that she practiced her choreography in front of him before each big performance. He loved that her friends all knew his name, loved that her parents wanted him over for Christmas, loved that when it was just the two of them nothing else seemed to matter in this whole cruel world. 

Her hands found purchase around his biceps, her new ring pressing into his skin until it was sure to leave a mark. Her eyes were on his, no longer tear-drenched, but now glowing with something that made him sure that they were going to be alright, that they were sure to make it. She tangled her hand into his hair, pulling his face down to kiss him again. 

“I love you,” she promised against his mouth. “So much baby,” she tightened around him. “So damn much.”

He fell over the edge before she did, but reached for her again, rubbing until she screamed outright. Their skin was slick against one another, a contrast of color that they had both stopped noticing long ago. He kissed her, leisurely this time, enjoying the sensation as she eagerly reciprocated. 

Michonne reached for her hand, inspecting the knuckles under the light of the lamp. She kissed each one, then his bruised eye in turn. “This isn’t going to be easy, you know,” she whispered, her eyes on his. 

“I know,” he’d known before he ever asked her to dinner, before he’d picked her up at the Moulin Rouge, before they’d ever stepped foot into that first party together. From the moment he had seen that bright smile of hers up on stage, he had been sure she was worth any inconvenience the world could conceive to throw at them. “You know what we have is worth it, right?” he asked her in turn. 

She smiled brightly, stroking her hand down to his chin. “I know,” she confirmed, kissing him gently. 

“I had another surprise too,” he told her, nuzzling closer to her. “One that damn cop didn’t manage to ruin,” he swallowed the anger, focusing instead on Michonne. 

She laughed lightly, a musical sound, “I was still surprised,” she promised him. 

“That I was in jail, or that I was planning to propose?” he asked, half-joking. 

She laughed all the more. “I thought you might be thinking about it,” she admitted. “But--”

He cut her off, kissing her soundly until she melted against him. “No buts,” he told her. Grinning, he reached beneath her to smack her on the ass. “This one’s the only one that matters.”

She threw her head back, giggling. “Rick,” she admonished. “That was awful.”

He only smiled. “Stay here,” he begged, leaning up. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she assured him. She watched curiously from the tangle of sheets as he found his suit pants and retrieved his wallet. The tickets were blessedly no worse for the wear. He held them up for her inspection. “Paris is supposed to be really nice at Christmas,” he said. 

Her eyes widened. “Rick, are you serious?”

He nodded, handing them to her. “Sammy suggested it. Said there’s lots of nice things about Paris. I thought maybe we’d go have a look.”

“There’s no return flight,” she said, surprised. 

Rick shrugged. “We can always book it from there,” he tried to keep his tone light. “There’s no need to rush it. You earned a vacation.” She hadn’t had a real night off in months.

She stared up at him, her face lit up with excitement. “What if we end up loving it?”

“They’ve got dancers there, same as here,” he said. “Got a friend out that’s been begging me to help him with a show. They’ll need a choreographer too,” he told her. “If we like it.”

She considered this, carefully controlled wonder sparkling behind her eyes. “If we like it,” she repeated. She handed the tickets back to him. Rick reached over to stow them in his wallet again. From behind, Michonne wrapped her arms around him, her palms stroking down his waist, skimming over him until his breath caught. 

“Already?” he chuckled knowingly. He’d heard other couples complain about a lack of enthusiasm in bed, but so far, he and Michonne hadn’t struggled on that front. 

“Shane said you knocked that guy’s teeth in,” her voice was husky, her hands wandering. 

Rick turned, surprised by her reaction. “Broke a few of them,” he admitted. 

Michonne crawled into his lap, straddling him. “I hope you didn’t stain your suit,” she remarked, settling in his lap. 

“No,” Rick confirmed, holding her tightly. “But his is ruined.”

She grinned outright. “You probably shouldn’t make a habit of it,” she cautioned. 

“No?” Rick lifted her then tugged her down again. She cried out as he filled her. “If they keep their mouths shut, I’ll stop breaking teeth.” 

She braced herself on his shoulders, lips parted, eyes heavily lidded. Rick watched, entranced as she bounced. 

“Besides,” he continued, laving at one nipple, then the other. “Kinda seems like you like it.”

She didn’t bother to protest, only moving more fervently. Rick cupped her cheeks in his hands, urging her down faster. 

By the time they finished, Rick was glad that they’d skipped the hotel, if only to spare the salacious tabloid headlines about how loud the couple could be in the bedroom. He watched Michonne as she slept, her face buried in the crook of his arm, completely at rest. From the corner, the record player crooned softly, a familiar song.

A cigarette that bears a lipsticks traces  
An airline ticket to romantic places  
And still my heart has wings  
These foolish things remind me of you

A week later, the skin around his eye was more yellow than purple, prompting funny stares as he moved through the airport with Michonne on his arm. Rick barely noticed, his attention on his fiancée, and not the nosy rabble around them. 

It wasn’t long before they stared in Paris too, but only because they recognized Michonne from the posters around town. A month turned into two, then three, until Rick stopped counting. Vegas would be there, along with his office, his connections, his house. He knew he’d return, and Michonne with him, but he was in no hurry. 

Not every guy was lucky enough to travel the world with the love of their life. If they stared, let them stare. 

As long as they kept their mouths shut, he wouldn’t have to break anymore teeth.


End file.
